


Fragments

by starcrossedgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Facials, M/M, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcrossedgirl/pseuds/starcrossedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry shouldn't enjoy it so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragments

**Author's Note:**

> Non-canon compliant from OoTP onwards. Also, titles are hard!  
>  **Disclaimer:** JKR would never write anything of the sort; luckily, I am not her!  
>  **Additional Warnings (highlight to view):**
> 
> Possible hints of dub-con, depending on how you read it.

Harry shouldn’t enjoy it so much.

He tells himself this each night as he wavers, wrapped in his cloak, outside the solid oak door: that it’s twisted and wrong, filthy and sick. That surely, this time, he’ll come to his senses; he’ll turn on his heel, stride away; he won’t look back.

He always knocks.

The problem is that he can’t keep a hold on those whys, once he’s inside. He compiles lists in his head -- never on paper -- during class, during dinner, sat in the library. He considers telling Hermione, in the hopes that her outrage might serve as a reminder, but he can’t bring himself to speak.

As soon as he’s here, none of it matters, and tonight is no different. The dark blankets him; under the familiar weight of the blindfold, he feels no shame. The rough-woven threads of sheets whisper against his thighs, his back, his arms. He could not name their colour if forced to at wand-point, but that’s unimportant; here, under Snape’s hands, he doesn’t need to see, doesn’t need to look over his shoulder every step of the way. Here he needs only to listen, to feel, to obey.

He shouldn’t enjoy it so much, that last part in particular. But although his heart thunders inside his ribcage as though it might burst, he welcomes each leap of his blood, the maddening anticipation of what will come next. Snape’s words twine around him, like ivy, or perhaps Devil’s snare. Sometimes, they cut, like the sharp bite of nails down Harry’s sides, like the twist of a nipple, like (ohGod) the burn of the switch. Sometimes, they soothe, like the lips to his brow, like the arms, holding him up. Sometimes, they coax, like Snape’s tongue against his palate, like his fingers, sliding hot-slick inside Harry until he begs and begs and begs some more.

(Snape never fucks him.)

Always, they guide Harry. They carry him, in their mellifluous constancy, to that point he can never predict but which always arrives; in concert with Snape’s hands and mouth they unravel him, they destroy him, every time. Harry loses track of the actual words, then, through the rushing of blood in his ears, through the cacophony of his own, shallow breaths, but that’s all right, too. Snape seems content to watch him writhe and moan, and possibly cry, and this, Harry can easily do.

As if he has a choice.

Snape only falls silent, when he is close. It took Harry a while to figure it out, amidst the sweet-guilty rush of Snape’s hand urging his own into the right pace or the overwhelming heat of Snape’s cock down his throat, of fingers twisting in Harry’s hair. Tonight, though, it goes like this: with Harry flat on his back, sweat-soaked and trembling, when Snape withdraws. He almost misses the rustle of cloth, too caught up in the loss of those hands to keep his hips from surging towards nothing; then he feels the quiet and it ceases to matter, like everything else. His fingers claw at the sheets, wanting, _needing_ to touch -- himself or Snape; it’s all the same. It’s disconcerting, all of a sudden, not being able to see, before there’s the slightest hitch in Snape’s breathing, and then it’s nothing short of torturous. His own gasps seem too loud, so he swallows them back, until he can hear nothing but the tell-tale rasp of flesh sliding on flesh, the shuddering, endless rhythm of Snape’s breaths, until blood-warm liquid lands on his jaw, his cheek, his lips.

Harry exhales, finally, but it comes out more like a whimper. “Look at you,” Snape says, trailing his thumb through the mess and over Harry’s mouth, and Harry sucks it in, desperate for something, anything, just _more_. “Slut.”

Harry shouldn’t enjoy it so much, Snape calling him names. But he can’t help it, just as he can’t help arching up into Snape’s fingers as they trail down his sternum, just as he can’t help sobbing himself hoarse when Snape grips him and makes him go to pieces, murmuring filth into his ear all the while.

He can never quite remember, in the midst of it all, how it began. Sometimes, in that moment right after, when he’s lying there blind and flayed open, he wonders if it went like this: a drop of something in his morning pumpkin juice, a subtle suggestion. Then Snape pulls him close and whispers words Harry can’t bear repeating, words he could never believe anywhere else, from anyone’s lips.

\---

“I hate you,” Harry mutters, when Snape gives him detention the following day, even though it was blatantly Malfoy who cast the first spell. He barely hears Hermione’s impassioned speech from his side, he’s glaring so hard.

Snape sneers at him and calls him pathetic, before stalking away.

It’s okay, though. Perhaps it’s wrong and it’s sick and it’s twisted, but they both know that this -- this is the lie.


End file.
